#Deep Robotics

[mockva]

The need for a head is greatly exaggerated

[xinyuehui]

△ THEY ARE THE OPTIMAL WEAPON FOR DESTROYING ONE ANOTHER. * THIS EXPERIMENT IS NEVER TO BE RESTARTED

[type40capsule]

Deep Robotics Launches Robot Dog

The quadruped robot can operate in temperatures from minus 71 to 131, making it applicable in extreme conditions

[yoan-le-grall]

[sweetcalebb]

AI Zayne: Feelings?

Even though you're an adult, your dad insists you need an AI "bodyguard." You don't want one though, especially not one that feels so real. But you don't have a say in the matter so now you're stuck with one.

cw: controlling dad, attachment issues, slow-burn (?)

INSPIRED BY: @syluses and their yummy fic!

thank u sm! <3

₊˚ ✧

"I'm not a kid! I don't need a—" Your eyes flick to the thing in the corner. Zayne. Or whatever its name is. He's standing in his charging station, head bowed, eyes shut, looking way too... human. "A creepy babysitter!" you snap.

You pace around the room, your eyes drifting back to him every few seconds like he might activate on his own at any minute. "I'm an adult for God's sake!" you hiss into the phone, knuckles turning white with effort.

"This isn't up for debate," your dad snaps back, his patience wearing thin. You'd had this argument about 5 times already, and you were both getting sick of it.

You sigh, running a tired hand through your hair. You glance at Zayne for the twentieth time. He's still motionless. You're not sure what you expected, but something about him—or it—is unnerving.

You want to argue back. Want to tell your dad you won't put up with some operating system disguised as a human following you around, but the argument dies in your throat.

Because you know your dad.

And you know there's no winning.

"It says he's off," he finally says, his words calm, but laced with an undeniable edge of frustration. "Turn him back on."

You bite your lip, heat rushing to your cheeks. Who the hell did he think he was? Telling you what to do? Assigning someone—something—to dote on you? To strip you of your privacy under the guise of safety? It was bullshit.

But you don't say that.

You simply scoff into the phone. "Fine."

You hang up and immediately toss your phone on the couch harder than you mean to. It bounces off the cushions and lands on the floor with a loud thud, but you don't even bother to pick it up.

You pace the room instead, muttering silent curses and tugging at your hair.

Your dad was unbelievable!

He just—

He was always—

You pause, taking a stuttering breath. You need to stop thinking about him. Just.. do literally anything else.

You pad over to Zayne, your arms crossed, your brows knit together, and your breath uneven. You reach toward him, pressing the button behind his ear, and step back when his eyes blink open.

He takes a moment. Blinks again, then focuses on you.

He's silent for a second before saying, "Good evening."

You don't say anything, just stare.

For a moment, you almost feel bad. Zayne just looks so human, and you're here, ignoring his attempt at polite conversation. Then you remember he's only an operating system. Then you don't feel bad. Just mad all over again.

Zayne blinks again. "Your heart rate is elevated."

Your brows pinch closer.

What the fuck? Was he doing bio scans on you now?

"Are you experiencing stress?

"Don't do that," you huff.

"Don't do what?"

"Don't.." You pause, taking a small step back. "Don't scan me."

"My job is to protect you. I have to sc—"

"Stop it," you snap, your voice rising with frustration. You're not mad at him. Not entirely. But he's the only one you can take your anger out on right now. "Just don't."

There's a beat of silence before Zayne nods. "Okay. I won't scan you anymore."

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Thanks, Dad.

—

The next weeks blur past. You can't tell where one day ends and the next one starts. All you know is Zayne won't leave you alone. It doesn't matter where you go, he's always a few steps behind. Quiet, yet always right there.

It makes you want to scream. At nothing, at him, at your father for giving you this thing that can't seem to give you a second of peace.

You did once.

You just got sick of hearing his heavy footsteps behind you every second of the day, so you snapped back around and began yelling at him to stop following you like you were some glass doll.

He didn't even flinch. Just stared at you, then nodded and said, "I'll keep my distance from now on."

He didn't stop following you completely. He always lingered nearby—at a safe distance.

Still, you hadn't yelled at him since. You thought it would've made you feel better, but it only made you feel worse. Like you were screaming at a pet that didn't understand what they did wrong.

Instead, you were nicer.

Just a little nicer.

…Then a lot nicer.

Suddenly, his presence didn't bother you as much. No, you'd sit near him instead of across the room like you did the first few weeks with him.

Suddenly, you were making offhand comments about whatever you were reading for the pure sake of starting conversations.

And Zayne seemed to follow the same sentiment. You weren't sure you could call it that, but it felt like it. He started bringing you tea without asking. Started noticing things you weren't sure he was programmed to notice, like your haircut or your new clothes.

It was unsettling and comforting all at once.

And now you're in your room, screeching into the phone. "Maintenance?! Doesn't he have like—I don't know—auto updates? Or.. something?"

"I thought you'd be relieved. You've been stuck with him for a month," your dad says.

You stay silent.

You should be relieved. You were against Zayne from the very start.. but now? Do you really want him gone?

"He's supposed to have maintenance every month. He'll only be gone for a day or two."

Still, you say nothing.

Because who the hell does he think he is?

First, he forces this robotic bodyguard, or babysitter, or—whatever it's supposed to be—on you, then he thinks he can just take it back? What a fucking—

You shut your eyes, bringing your hand up to your face to rub your temple. You're overreacting. You know that. It's not like your dad's taking Zayne away forever.

It's just a day or two.

It's the principle that upsets you. That's what you tell yourself, anyway.

"He's doing just fine," you finally mutter. "He doesn't need maintenance."

Your dad sighs, and you can practically hear him pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't get to decide that." His voice is smooth, but it's tinged with that controlled edge you know too well. "It's already scheduled."

"Then cancel it."

Your dad scoffs. "Why do you insist on being such a stubborn..—" He doesn't finish his sentence. Just lets out a low rumble. "I'm not canceling it. Why are you fighting me on this, of all things?"

He waits, then slowly adds, "Are you attached to it?"

Your breath hitches at his question.

"No," you mutter. "I'm not attached."

"Then what's the issue?"

"There's no issue."

"Then stop fighting this."

You groan. It was always the same thing with your dad. You were sick of him making choices for you.

"No. You can't just take him."

"Are you just arguing for the sake of arguing? When will you learn to—"

"He's mine."

It slips out before you can stop it.

And the world stills for just a second when the words finally register.

He’s mine.

It's childish. So embarrassingly childish, and you know your dad is on the other line with his brows furrowed and his mouth open.

"He's yours?" He echoes. It's silent for a second, then he laughs. The mocking sound grates on your nerves. "If you're this upset over it, then maybe the AI's gotten too close. Should I report it?"

You have to stop yourself from blurting out 'no' too quickly. You remind yourself to rein it in before speaking.

"It's not like that," you huff. "I just don't like you deciding things and then telling me at the last minute."

Your dad sighs. "Because if I asked, you'd argue. Like you're doing right now."

"But you can't just—"

"It's getting maintenance tomorrow. That's final."

"You don't get to just—to just decide that! He’s with me all the time—I should be the one to say when he gets maintenance!"

Your chest heaves with your angry breaths as you wait for your dad to argue back—because he always does—but it's silent.

Too silent.

"Hello?"

You pull your phone away from your ear to look at the screen, and you scoff. He hung up. That bastard hung up.

"Fuck you!" you yell into the speaker (even though he can't hear it) before slamming your phone down onto the bed with a quiet thud. The sound isn't nearly loud enough, though. So, impulsively, you turn to your nightstand and shove your humidifier off.

Your dad had no right.

No right whatsoever.

You're not attached.

Zayne is just a robot trained to keep you safe. Nothing less, nothing more. And yet you find yourself storming into the living room just to look at him.

You stop in front of him, the tension slowly bleeding out of your shoulders. He's charging, head bent and eyes closed—the way he always looks when he's plugged in.

He's so peaceful like this. So blissfully unaware. It makes you want to slap him because it just isn't fair.

It isn't fair that he doesn't have to feel these feelings. It isn't fair that he doesn't have so much frustration that he thinks he can punch a hole into the wall.

Slowly, you reach out, touching your fingertips to his lashes. The designers made them so long and pretty. Almost like he was made for you to like him. To lure you in. That wasn't fair either.

You stare for a moment longer before your fingers gently slip behind his ear. You want to make yourself believe this is a grudging decision, but you know it's not.

You press the power button, your stomach twisting as you wait for him to blink his eyes open. When he does, you don't even have the chance to say anything before he eyes you—once—then says, "You're upset."

You let out a soft breath through your nose. "I'm fine."

"You always say that when you're not."

You remind yourself he's programmed to be perceptive, but it doesn't stop the little squeeze your heart does.

"What's wrong?"

You shrug. "Nothing."

Zayne looks at you, searching for any shift or twitch that might tell him what happened. You don't give him the chance, though. You're already shuffling over to the couch and sink down.

Zayne follows, still trying to figure out what's bothering you.

"Do you know what maintenance you need?"

Zayne's eyes flicker to the floor. They flash a mechanical blue for a few seconds before they return to their normal hazel-green.

He glances back up.

"Diagnostics say all systems are operating within normal parameters."

Your chest tightens. If Zayne can do a little check-up on himself, why the hell did he need to get sent somewhere else?

Almost like he can read your mind, Zayne adds, "But all AIs under contract are required to report for monthly maintenance unless otherwise overridden.”

You take a small breath.

"Oh."

"You sound worried." His eyes run over your face, filing each expression into a personal folder in the corner of his mind. "Is that what you're upset about? My maintenance?"

You bite your lip, trying to stop the words from spilling out. It's silly, letting yourself get so vulnerable with a damn robot, but you can't help it.

"What happens if something goes wrong during maintenance? Do you even know?" you blurt out.

The minute you say it, Zayne's expression softens like he's finally put it together. "..You're worried about.. me."

You tear your eyes away.

It's not like he can judge you, but you still feel the need to avoid his gaze. "Just tell me what can go wrong."

He waits a beat, then softly— "No."

You snap your head back up, your brows furrowed. "What—? Zayne. Tell me."

"I think it's best I don't."

"Zayne—"

"It's highly unlikely anything will go wrong."

You huff, your lips curling with a frown. "What if you come back differently? Like.." You know you should shut up, but you don't. "Like, what if you start talking differently? Or don't remember who I am?"

"I'll remember you," he says, his voice lowering just a fraction. "I promise."

Your heart stutters.

"You're not just saying that?"

"No." Zayne takes a step closer, his gaze darting down to your hand like he's thinking about comforting you. Of holding it with his own.

Or maybe you’re imagining it.

Because he doesn't.

"I'll recite everything I know about you when I get back." His words are confident. Final.

You let out a soft breath. "Okay then." You stand back up, walking him back to his charging station. He hesitates for a second, something like sympathy passing through his eyes before he finally steps in.

"You'll recite everything when you're back?" you ask, standing in front of him, your fingers hovering over the button behind his ear.

He nods. "I'll recite everything."

Your chest feels tight. You want to believe him, but there's a part of you that's still doubting. It's why you don't press the button. Why you just let your fingers linger there, palm pressed against his jaw.

When you still don't say anything, Zayne reaches up and gently wraps his hand around your wrist. It almost feels like he's going to lean into your touch, but instead he just gives your wrist a light squeeze.

"You don't have anything to worry about."

"Okay."

You scan his face, like you're trying to memorize it in case they make any changes to his face. Maybe you are. Then, against your better judgment, you lean in and press your lips to his cheek.

It's warm. Soft. Like yours. It feels real enough to let your lips linger a second longer than you mean to before pulling back.

Zayne's forehead creases—something you didn't even know he could do—as he watches you lean back. His gaze darts down to your lips, up to your eyes, then back down again.

"Goodnight, Zayne," you murmur.

He hesitates. "..Goodnight."

And then you're powering him down.

—

Your dad said it would only take one to two days to do maintenance, but it actually took three.

Three whole days.

The minute his men bring Zayne back, you shoo them away to inspect him yourself.

You stand in front of Zayne, raking your eyes over every feature until you're certain they're the same. But you feel like something else is wrong.

Like they messed up. Fucked up his coding or whatever the hell is that makes Zayne Zayne.

That makes him.. yours.

You fumble with his power button and bite your nails as you wait for him to power on. You think it takes him a second longer to turn on, and it makes your stomach churn.

Even when he blinks his eyes open, you feel something isn't right still.

You can't help it. Quickly, you blurt out, "What's my favorite color?"

Zayne looks at you, but he doesn't answer. Just roves his eyes over your face like he's discovering it for the first time, and then you feel it.

Panic.

They fucked up.

For a moment you're quiet. Then it hits you. Dread, anger, and hurt all at once.

You groan as you spin around; you can't bear to look at Zayne like this.

"I told him to cancel it. But he didn't listen! No, he wanted to fucking—" You breathe in sharply. "He wanted to be an asshole!"

Your voice rises and falls with every syllable, chest heaving with angry breaths. You're so frantic, you don't even realize Zayne has stepped out of his charging station.

"I'm going to—to—"

Realistically, what would you do? What could you possibly do? It's a ridiculous notion because really, you can't do anything. Your dad is untouchable.

Because of course he is. Stupid, fucking—

Suddenly, you feel a hand on your shoulder. It's comforting. Heavy. You slowly turn around, your frustration melting away the minute you look at Zayne again. He looks so calm. So… Zayne.

He slowly drops his hand to his side.

"Zayne?" you murmur softly.

There's a small silence before he speaks.

"You kissed me."

Your eyes go wide, heat rushing to your cheeks.

"I wasn't programmed to respond to affection… But… I.." His eyes drift down to your lips. "I liked it. And I wasn't supposed to."

[kenchann]

im in the trenches anyway heres mettaton vil 👑

[lonelyzarquon]

[mothcpu]

back road

[scrawnyghstts]

the demons won I'm writing out my idea for mr harley sawyer x reader (someone sedate me)

[polaritydisturbed]

Ok no, we have to talk about the lighting design this season. Like I need to physically get this out of my body before I implode.

Because it’s so deliberate. It's obnoxiously deliberate. In the best, most beautiful, emotionally manipulative way.

So. Let’s talk about Belinda’s bedroom scene.

We open on Belinda’s bedroom, and the first thing you notice is that it’s drenched—absolutely soaked—in a cool teal-green wash. Not a trace of warmth in the room’s ambient light (aside from the salt lamp but I'll get to it).

Teal is a weirdly loaded color. People always slap it on when they want “serenity” or “calm,” sure, but there’s something haunting about the way it’s used here. It doesn’t feel like peace—it feels like the kind of stillness that happens after something ends. Like the quiet after the noise. That post-shift haze where your body’s in bed but your brain hasn’t followed yet.

What this tells us about Belinda? She’s stuck. The teal isn’t soothing her—it’s holding her in place. This isn’t a woman “relaxing” after work. This is a woman numbed by routine. She’s lying on top of the covers in a basic t-shirt, sweatpants, and socks—clothes that aren’t chosen, just defaulted to. The bed isn’t made. The room isn’t messy, but it isn’t cared for either. It's just… there. Like her.

Everything feels low-energy, lived-in without being truly inhabited. There’s a faint sense of order, but it doesn’t feel owned. There’s no vitality in the space. Like she’s present, but not alive. Teal here isn’t calm—it’s domestic sedation. It’s the color of pause. Of liminality.

Then there's that salt lamp. This soft, orange-yellow glow tucked in the corner of the frame. Warm, comforting, alive—completely opposite the teal-blue void it’s fighting against. It’s the only light source in the room that feels personal. Human.

And it’s not just that it’s a warm color. Color emotion theory tells us that orange and amber tones evoke feelings of warmth, optimism, and emotional openness. They're often used to simulate firelight, tapping into a primal sense of security—think hearth, sunset, candle. These hues are associated with creativity and personal connection. In a sea of teal, which promotes detachment, this little pocket of orange is like a flare of identity. A soul-spark.

Where teal sedates, amber invites. It’s the color of possibility, of life that hasn’t been extinguished yet. It's why the lamp doesn't light the room—it gives it a pulse.

Now here’s the kicker: the salt lamp is right under the star placard. The one with her name on it. The one that kickstarts the entire plot because a whole alien race thinks it makes her their queen.

The lamp’s glow reads like a tiny heartbeat in an otherwise frozen space. Symbolically, it’s the spark of self. That little ember of hope, joy, personality, belief—whatever you want to call it—that hasn’t been drowned out by the monotony of her life yet.

And the fact that it's under the placard? It's literally illuminating the part of her that the universe is about to claim.

Next we cut to a close-up of Belinda in bed. The composition here is brilliant.

Her pillow and the surrounding sheets are washed in the same cool teal light we saw earlier—but her? She's glowing in the orange warmth of the salt lamp.

This isn’t just pretty lighting—it’s duality. It's saying, “Here’s who she is now” (the teal), “and here’s what’s still inside her” (the glow). There’s a literal split happening—like she’s caught in a transition she doesn’t realize is coming.

This is the in-between. Her liminal moment. She’s not where she was, and she’s not yet where she’s going. But the camera lingers like it knows. Like it’s waiting for the change to start.

Then—boom. The lighting shifts. We get this violently bright, harsh yellow light flooding in through the window. And it doesn’t just pour in—it slices in. Through the blinds. In bars.

Let me say that again: bars.

It’s casting shadows across her body like a prison cell. That’s not an accident. It’s signaling that something is coming for her, and it’s not asking permission. It’s claiming her.

Yellow is a deceptive color in emotional theory. People think of it as cheerful—sunlight, sunflowers, warmth, joy, energy. But in design, especially in lighting? Yellow walks a tightrope. It can tilt into chaos fast. Especially when it’s this bright. This sudden. This aggressive.

See, yellow stimulates. It grabs your attention. It speeds up the heart. In advertising, it's used to spark urgency, even irritation (think hazard lights or warning signs). It’s a color that demands you look—and keep looking. You can’t relax in yellow. You can’t sleep in yellow. You react to yellow.

So when this high-saturation yellow floods Belinda’s room, it’s not joy. It’s not hope. It’s alarm. It’s a psychological jolt. A visual shove. It's not warmth—it's pressure.

Yellow in this scene is not an invitation to a new beginning—it’s an intrusion of expectation. A sudden spotlight. A cosmic glare.

And because it’s coming from outside the room, it’s not something she’s chosen. It’s not internal. It’s a force of narrative crashing through her private life. A story she didn’t ask to be in, demanding her attention. That yellow isn’t her destiny—it’s the noise of everyone else's expectations about who she’s going to become.

Now add the shadows of the blinds—those harsh horizontal slats—and you get a visual contradiction: a color that screams freedom, cast like a cage.

This is where it gets interesting. Because yellow is also associated with identity. Think ego, confidence, clarity of purpose. But when it’s forced, when it’s too loud, too fast, too bright—it becomes performance. The expectation to be seen. To shine. To embody something.

And that’s what’s happening here. The light doesn’t just want to see her—it wants her to become something. Bigger. Brighter. More.

This yellow doesn’t light her path. It exposes her.

She’s no longer safe in teal limbo. No longer comforted by the amber pulse of her salt lamp. She’s on display now. A body in a frame, spotlighted by a universe with no context. A woman seen through blinds—literally and metaphorically—by beings who will misread everything about her.

It’s the color of being watched. Of being presumed important. Of being chosen for reasons that have nothing to do with who you actually are.

And that’s the genius of it. That yellow glow isn't warmth—it’s the burn of recognition without understanding. It’s what happens when the world thinks you’re a lightbulb and plugs you into a searchlight.

Next: the silhouette.

We see Belinda standing in front of the window, her body blacked out by the light in front of her. The yellow glows around her like a solar flare through the clouds. It’s angelic. Messianic. Looks like the birth of a chosen one.

But that’s not what’s happening.

She’s not rising to the occasion. She’s staring out, stunned, trying to make sense of what just punched its way into her night. The light frames her like a heroine, but narratively, she’s still playing catch-up. That contrast—the visual myth vs. her actual confusion—is where the scene gets its emotional punch.

We’re watching her image transform before she does. The world sees her one way. The camera frames her that way. But she hasn’t caught up to that version of herself yet.

And then: the blinds.

Belinda slowly peels two slats open. A single bar of that same aggressive yellow light slices across her face and eyes. It’s dramatic. Cinematic. Looks like a revelation moment.

But it’s not a choice.

This isn’t Belinda stepping into anything. She’s not crossing a threshold. She’s just cracking the blinds because something is already happening to her—and she doesn’t understand it yet.

The light doesn’t represent clarity or destiny. It’s not a warm invitation. It’s an impact. A collision. A blunt force of something larger than her life forcing its way into her space. The yellow glow across her eyes doesn’t illuminate—it disrupts.

And that’s the real tension: she’s about to feel chosen. About to be miscast as important. But right now? She’s just tired. Just a woman in a basic tee and sweats, lying on top of the covers, poking through the blinds because something weird is happening to her, not for her. She’s not looking for meaning. She’s bracing for answers she didn’t ask to get.

That narrow beam of light slicing into the room isolates her. It spotlights her against her will. The world beyond those blinds has noticed her, and that attention is about to upend everything.

It’s the start of a misunderstanding. The beginning of being seen wrong. Of being dragged into something monumental because of one stupid star certificate and a moment she didn’t choose.

The light doesn’t welcome her. It claims her.

And the brilliance of this scene is how it tells us all of that—who Belinda is, what she’s lacking, and what’s coming—without a single word. The color palette sets her emotional baseline; the lighting builds the lie. It misleads us just enough that we feel the shift with her.

[aster-ish]

Just learned that the word "robot" is derived from the Czech word "robota" which means "forced labor," coined in 1920 for use in the Czech play Rossum's Universal Robots (which! Yes! ROZZUM from The Wild Robot appears to be a reference to)

I'm usually p unwell about robots in literature as it is, but just thinking about it....... their very existence.... inextricably linked to the concept of humanity's greed, arrogance, and cruelty: those themes aren't just a byproduct of what the subject naturally entails, they're implanted deep into the heart of the word itself.........

...and yet, no matter how much we as story writers like to subvert tropes.... no matter how much we as society change, and our stories change with us.... we still can't help but to humanize them. In part because of our pack bonding tendencies, but also because we've seen all too well that a person doesn't need to be artificial to be treated as inhuman. After all, the ones made to do robota were originally humans... Ough.

[robotgirlregularly]

Perhaps one of the deep rock galactic robots, like M.U.L.E/Molly or the drilldozer/Doretta ?

The robot girl of the day is Doretta from Deep Rock Galactic!

[arty-platypi]

vontroz babies on tha whiteboard +some rummage brainrot

[dirt-str1der]

Just finished Dr Stone Reboot

[danandphileselevel4]

Google AI, who the fuck is Philz_Poo?!

[ramblingguy54]